"I Was the Fattest Hiker on the Mountain"

An overweight mom makes a soul-searching climb up Kilimanjaro.

When I say I'm fat, I am not being charmingly self-deprecating. I am 6 feet tall. Each of my legs is the width of a century-old tree, and my hips are as wide as a Smartcar bumper.

In 2011, when I decided to hike Mount Kilimanjaro for the third time, I was, no exaggeration, the fattest hiker on the mountain. I wore hiking pants that were made from two single pairs sewn together. At 300 pounds, I was a glutton, for food and for punishment.

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I had a history of swallowing my feelings, a pattern that began when I was kid, trying to hide from hurtful things in my life. The first time I raided the pantry, I was nine years old. My parents, still together at the time, were fighting in the kitchen. The more I gorged, the less I felt; the more I chewed, the less I heard. I'd found a way to numb the pain. As their arguments became more frequent, and my life less stable, the pantry became my hideaway.

After my parents' divorce, my father mostly dropped out of my life. Other traumas followed. On my twelfth birthday, a friend of my older brother came to the house after school one day and, with my brother upstairs, forced himself on me, shoving his hand into my pants and his tongue down my throat. I was afraid of him. He was a bully, a playground hoodlum who'd tortured both me and my brother before, and so I didn't flinch. But when he moved just enough to allow me to stand up, I fled to the kitchen.

Clockwise from left: The author at age 12, 14, and 15.

Courtesy of Kara Richardson Whitely

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He appeared at the doorway. "Do you want anything?" I asked, holding the refrigerator door open, pretending to look for a snack. He shook his head and slunk away, but the damage was done. That summer I binged compulsively, soothing myself with comfort foods — cookies, cakes, whatever I could glean. I gained 40 pounds. Ten years later, by the time I finished college, I weighed 360 pounds.

By some stroke of good luck, when I was 26, I fell in love with one of my best friends, and was delighted to discover that he loved me back. Chris was an active guy, a runner and healthy eater. I wanted to keep up with him, so I walked, hiked, and dropped 120 pounds. We trekked to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro together, my first trip up the mountain. The experience changed my life. It gave me the confidence and strength to live my dreams, not just harbor them.

After that, I felt loved and supported enough to take care of myself. I ate healthy things in normal amounts, and my bingeing habit went away. But after I got pregnant with our first child, the old demons returned. Off-balance with my belly and suffering from relentless back pain, I was afraid to hike. I was also scared to become a mom — and so I began bingeing again, making repeat trips to fast food drive-thrus and my pantry. After my daughter's birth, I kept at it, eventually peaking over 300 pounds.

My numbers — blood pressure, blood sugar, and cholesterol — have always been within the normal range; for years, I used them to justify my disordered eating.

But my true wake-up call arrived one day at the dinner table, when my daughter, then three, asked, "Mommy, why are you so fat?" After tucking her into bed that night, I wept.

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Kara and her daughter in 2011.

Courtesy Kara Richardson Whitely

As she grew older, I worried my body would begin to embarrass her — that, at her school plays, I wouldn't be able to fit into the auditorium seats, or that I'd be too tired to stand through her soccer games. But my worst fear of all was causing my own untimely death and leaving her motherless.

And so I got to thinking again about the single greatest achievement in my life: my first Kilimanjaro climb.

In 2011, I had the chance to go back with a charitable organization. Even if I didn't drop a pound, I reasoned, perhaps an achievement as great as summiting the mountain again would make my daughter proud, and put me back on top of my life again.

And yet, on the second night of the 50-miles-plus trek, I began to rue the decision. Snug in my oversized sleeping bag, nursing excruciatingly sore muscles from 10 hours of hiking that day, I could hear the guides and porters outside the tent, saying my name and roaring with laughter. "I don't belong on this mountain," I thought, burning with shame.

My path since that trek hasn't been perfect. The mountain didn't cure me of my disordered eating. I still occasionally make poor choices. I'm working on it. But the summit gave me a chance to truly tune out the world and reflect on my life: Where I've been and where I'd like to go.

Now, I decide which parts of my past to carry. My absent father, my molester, and every lousy experience I've gone through have helped shape the person I've become. The thing is, I've finally figured out that I need to put the bad stuff aside to live the life I want for myself and my family.

Plus-size author, adventurer, wife and mom of two Kara Richardson Whitely tackled Kilimanjaro three times. She lives in Summit, N.J. with her family. Read more about her inspiring journey at kararichardsonwhitely.com.

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